The Yearning

My headlights turned onto the single-track road scanning clumps of hedges and scattered rocks lining the verge. Briefly illuminated they plunged back into darkness - the same darkness as inside the van with only two beams searching the narrow tarmac strip ahead. Daylight had already faded on this November afternoon. The “bus”, as we had called the converted camper van, slowly climbed the narrow incline. I had not had much practice driving it. A trip in the summer to a campsite on the West Coast had been my only outing so far. Its dark brown colour melted into the diminishing light and surrounding terrain. You had said it would blend in. Parked somewhere on the road side, nobody would spot it as a camper van.You left at the beginning of the year. Somewhere between then and now this yearning had started. It had built up doggedly and today it was so strong that I left the warm comfort of our home, now only my home, on the spur of the moment.

Suddenly, dazzling bright lights cut through the black in front of me like the beams of a lighthouse searching across the dark sea. Oh no! I hoped - prayed - there would be no oncoming traffic. Illuminated round shapes paralysed my stare and my hands clutched the steering wheel as if on a white knuckle ride. How much space was there on my left so that I could pass? I knew of the steep embankment from past visits. The pounding of my heart was neither reassuring nor helpful as our two vehicles crept towards each other like two animals on the prowl, eyeing each other up. I had slowed right down. A tall tree now guarded me on my left. Its large canopy branched over me while its roots had stretched out into the track and lifted the front of my bus enough for the dipped lights to shine directly into the cabin of the other vehicle. The driver raised his arm to cover his eyes. He will not be pleased. I stopped the bus. My opponent also came to a halt. The tree was my guard. The boxed shape of his car could show it to be a four wheel drive, so I hoped. There we stood: two vehicles and two drivers facing each other in the dark silence. The seconds crept along as if minutes. Eventually, he started to turn his wheels towards the rocky embankment on his side, and slowly the shadow of his car eased past me like a chameleon hesitant and watchful of every move until it merged with the night behind me, except for his rear lights. They still told of his existence until my side mirrors turned black again and my heartbeat started to slow down. I put in first gear and carefully let the clutch come.

The darkness kept me and my bus wrapped in its comforting blanket till the entrance to the parking area loomed in the headlights. It had a dirt track leading down to the loch. As I turned off, a white sign of “no overnight parking “ flashed into the cabin! It showed the drawing of a caravan and a tent. “I am neither,” I told myself. It was to be a reassurance but I could not ignore the feeling of guilt in doing something wrong. I focussed on getting the bus down the uneven track instead, till the familiar wooden picnic bench emerged with the parking bay just above it. We had used that on our last visit here, but it had not been in the bus. I had insisted on buying it so you had privacy when needing to change your stoma bag whilst out and about. You complied but you were not a camper van person. Your Brogue shoes and tweed jacket liked Landrovers and Jaguars, and as for any overnight stay a hotel had preference. Reversing, and especially a long-wheelbase transporter, was not my forte. However, that guilt feeling still churning in my solar plexus told me not to go in nose first. It would not make for an easy get away. The uninterrupted darkness surrounding me confirmed I was on my own here and should have reassured me that nobody was checking on my illegal parking nor watching my driving. A man once glued his eyes on my manoeuvring the bus into a parking lot at the supermarket. He sat opposite the bay into which I tried to reverse. His stare bore holes into my confidence but I did not give in. It took a few corrections but I got it parked and parked straight. As I looked up his thumb came up. I could not decide whether I should smile or scowl at him, so I did neither.

I eased the van far enough into the bay till my side mirrors and the rear lights showed a small strip of ground remaining. I remembered there was a drop into a small ditch behind there.

So, here I was, where I had wanted to go. Now what?

Hesitantly I turned off the engine. The dying headlights reiterated I was alone indeed, but someone had left two tied up bags with rubbish behind. There were no dustbins. A silent message for everyone to take their litter home. At least the rubbish was contained, the only evidence of other human contact here that day.

With the vanishing of the light I remained seated behind the steering wheel. A slight unease resurfaced in my stomach. Staring into the darkness felt now like staring at a wall - a wall high enough to keep me caged. I could not let that happen - and opened the door. Slowly my body slid down from the driver's seat to the ground. There, I stood and waited. That feeling in my stomach was still there but there was also another feeling. It exerted a push, although I did not know towards what, until the glimmer of the loch sent familiarity and with that comfort and reassurance. The water’s edge was no more than 30 yards away. While it was almost completely dark here amongst the trees in the parking lot, the loch itself still carried the remainder of the day on its surface.

Resolutely I shut the door. My fob instantly locked the vehicle . Who should steal it? I ignored that thought. Using the aid of the small torch, I made my way down to the loch. The moon tried to rise from behind a thin layer of clouds and bathed the water and its boundaries in a calm grey light. There were no tides here but the water still moved . A slight breeze ruffled its surface creating sparkling moments. They died as quickly as they rose. The waning light of the day now merging with the rising light of the moon carried a damp stillness that allowed other senses to awaken. I listened. Nothing. No noise. The single road, up there behind me, was dark and quiet and had remained so since I got here. I had not seen or heard any animals either, not even the screeching of a bird of prey nor that of an owl. Maybe the herd of deer that had highlighted our past visit, stood somewhere silently observing me. Maybe I was the creature out of the ordinary and everybody and everything held their breath to watch me and my movements. The thought should have brought a smile to my face, but it stirred new unease in my stomach. I had never done anything like this before: taking off on the spur of the moment, heading for the wilderness , and that on a cold, dark and damp November afternoon! And now that I reached my destination, I could not go back - no - I would not go back!

The grains of sand underneath my boots crunched loudly as I turned to head back to the bus. The small beam of the torch light granted a limited space of clarity, enough to hold on to a bog myrtle branch to pull myself up to the picnic area. The wooden table and its two attached benches still sat there, solid and heavy, but also empty and abandoned. I brushed past it and retreated to the looming shadow of the bus. Yes, it did blend in, an undefined elongated shape in the dark that showed no indication of being a vehicle.

I needed to set up camp - after all, that was the whole purpose of this trip, at least the outer casting of the purpose. As I climbed back into the van I welcomed the residual warmth still clinging to the inside of its shell. I placed myself between the two front seats with my palms finding the edge of the pop-up roof. Old age brings its challenges, a friend once told me. With a deep breath of air, knees unlocked and arms straight I heaved myself as well as the roof upwards until the hiss of the hydraulic system took over. My arthritic hands had felt it but survived. Turning around the passenger seat was less strenuous. It was to offer additional seating for the both of us, now it was just a surface where to place my overnight bag. The final and most important task was to pull the four sections of the back bench into a bed. I did my best but could not straighten the pieces completely. My friend was right. Old age has its challenges. The two middle sections kept their upright angle, giving the bed a sad dromedary hump. There was nothing for it but to throw my body weight on top to flatten it. As I sank down with the hump easing underneath me and the bed straightening past the cupboard holding all my cooking utensils I realised that I had taken neither the kettle nor any coffee out for the morning. Blast! Now I had to reverse everything and start again!!

For this I needed to climb into the van through the tailgate with my toes balancing precariously on the small ledge above the bumper. Leaning my upper body across the flat upholstery I reached towards the middle section. My poor fingers hung on to the width of the cushions while my core muscles tightened to lift them up enough to release the lock. How glad was I for that sad little hump to appear again! The rest was easy. As soon as the cupboard door was freed, it flew open to release the kettle and coffee tin.

Yes, my friend was right. Despite its mundanity the making of the bed had given me a sense of achievement, but once that waned the gnawing in my stomach returned. It settled there in the same way I settled into my sleeping bag, uneasily. I had drawn the curtains on the side windows so as to let as little light seep to the outside as possible. I did not want to be noticed by anyone. The thought of a vehicle turning up sent my heart into a renewed gallop.

However, no other car rumbled down the track, but one drove along the main road. I heard its engine well before its headlights reached through the darkness. My breath halted while I listened for any change of gear and reduction in speed. Neither happened. I could breathe again.

A November evening in the Scottish Highlands invites the night much sooner, especially when you are sitting alone in a camper van in the middle of an ancient Caledonian Forest, away from street lights, traffic, shops and people. Time also slows down and thankfully so did my heart. I picked up the mobile phone to check for messages to catch up with the outside world. Oh Noooo!.…….NO signal! ……..No matter how long I stared at the screen no bar appeared. And here I was - in the middle of nowhere - with no way to ask for help! My heart had started its gallop again.

How dependent we have become on instant communication. And yet, I lived most of my life without such a technological crutch. Why should I feel vulnerable now? I reminded myself of that as I stared at the blank screen. I did not need help. Despite that reassurance the silence around me grew vast and heavy. An aircraft droned distantly overhead - the only sign of anything else existing. The fading of its engine noise fortified that feeling of vulnerability, underscoring the knowledge that I was indeed alone here, and yet, I feared the appearance of another car even more.

Of course I could pack up and return home. No - I had wanted to do this- I needed to do this, even if I did not know why.

Sleep did not come easily. I tried my breathing exercises. It helped - but only for so long and then I was awake again. The pattern repeated itself till morning.

Warming my palms around a steaming mug of coffee, I returned to the water’s edge. The sun was still held in slumber behind a hazy, misty sky, but the grey light carried a stronger brightness compared to the previous evening. The water lay calm and even, yet a subtle whispering of tiny waves was audible, gently kissing the sand with the soft gurgle of a quiet conversation. As the light grew, the pervading grey began to fade, allowing the shadows of the night to transform into bushes and pine trees.

Closing my eyes, I absorbed the harmony and balance created by where I was. I could have been in my yoga class, in the tree pose, standing with closed eyes and simply be. I always liked that pose—it offered a mini-meditation. Here, this meditation, this inner acceptance of the now, was much stronger, enhanced by the melodious sound of the water and nature’s energy surrounding me. The sun finally broke through and with the light increasing I opened my eyes.

The coffee mug empty, I scanned my surroundings. A small island lay further along bordered by the inlet of water. Leaving the mug on the picnic table and trusting that it would still be there when I returned, I set out in its direction.

Approaching the island’s boundary the sand gave way to soft, marshy bog. Each step sunk deep into the ground leaving a watery footprint behind. It soon became absorbed again into the surface seemingly untouched. As the morning light opened its wings the white sparks on the water returned.

A narrow weir offered me a safe passage across. An old gnarled pine tree dominated the small strip of sandy beach, leaning heavily backwards as if to lie down. Its thick roots grasped the sand like the tentacles of an octopus as they reached across to the water’s edge. I settled on one of those tentacles. Its surface felt smooth and comforting. With my legs dangling down I let my eyes scan across the water to the horizon. There, snow-capped mountains offered a beautiful surprise. I listened to that wet murmur again, but it was not as distinct as on the shore where I had parked the bus. Maybe my mind was not as focussed as the increasing light drew attention to plenty of other distractions. The sand here was grainier and held some pebbles. I picked one up. It was smooth and polished. How long would it have had to tumble in the water to fit so perfectly into the palm of my hand? Holding on to the pebble I rose from the tree root and clambered over the tall straggly heather, now bare of its purple autumn glory, to enter a small thicket in the middle of this small piece of land. It was filled with saplings of birch trees and one other, slimmer pine tree reaching towards the sky. I liked to think it was the child of the one I had just left. As I looked up to its crown, small raindrops tumbled gently from the sky caressing my face. I decided to return to the ancient pine tree again. Somehow I felt akin to it, and I settled there once more. This time my eyes did not need to explore. We had visited this loch in the past, before you became ill, but we did not venture to this island. I do not think we noticed it. Placing my hands on the soft curvature of the thick root I suddenly felt no longer alone or lonely. I mean that loneliness that accompanies you no matter where you are. Peace settled within me - a peace that spread steadily and calmly reaching all there was of me. It was solid but not heavy and gave reassurance and safety, like a child finds in the arms of a parent.

I lost you, and with your long illness I lost myself. Here it seems I can find you again but I can find myself too —in the sparkle on the water, in the rhythmical lullaby of its movement, in the wind whispering undeciphered words into my ear, in the soft rain joining my tears, both merging and silently gliding down my face. Sitting on these roots, that were so open to the environment, I took solace in the determination of this proud conifer defying winter blizzards, summer droughts, and autumn storms. Resting against its gnarled trunk, already warmed a little by the morning sun, I felt the solitude of its existence providing comfort and healing - and hope.

Let life throw its bad and good weather at me. I will keep my inner strength and be the me that I am, just as this ancient pine - and never lose hope.